


A Word Apart

by Malu_3 (Grainne)



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst and Humor, Arranged Marriage, Canon-Typical Violence, Consensual Infidelity, Dystopia, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fate & Destiny, Harsh treatment of children, M/M, Minor Character Death, Soul Bond, Tavern Tales, emotional tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-15
Updated: 2015-03-15
Packaged: 2018-03-17 22:42:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3546455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grainne/pseuds/Malu_3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur, Merlin knows, is his soulmate. The one destiny has chosen for him and, while he was growing inside his mum, knitted into his bones, his magic, branded on his skin. </p><p>Destiny, as it happens, has also fucked up big time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Word Apart

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for [Tavern Tales March 2015 Theme: Soul Bonds, Destinies, Meant to Be](http://tavern-tales.livejournal.com/11204.html), specifically for Tavernkeepers' prompts related to potential dystopic issues around soul bonds, as in (paraphrased): Falling in love with someone who's not your soulmate; not having any clue about how intimacy/relationships work because all your life you've been waiting for your perfect soulmate; and the person whose name you've had on your body since birth just...not having yours, because destiny fucked up.

**One**

When Merlin is small and just starting to learn the alphabet, he starts with dashing "A" just like everyone else in the village. But next comes bossy "R," then big stern "T" and "H" followed by thirsty "U." The other "R" is a repeat, but he can hardly see it unless he twists himself into a very awkward position over a reflective surface, so he mostly ignores it.

ARTHU(R), Merlin knows, is his soulmate. The one destiny has chosen for him and, while he was growing inside his mum, knitted into his bones, his magic, branded on his skin. The letters are stark on his pale thigh, a rich rosy-brown that his mum tells him he should be proud of.

"It will be a beautiful bond," she says as she scrubs him down with a damp cloth before the fire. "Very strong. You're a lucky boy, Merlin. And so is your Arthur, whoever he may be."

So Merlin grows up happily, feeling lucky and loved, secure in the knowledge that even though his powerful magic makes him a bit of an outsider in Ealdor, there is someone out there who is already _his_ , and that one day they'll meet and have lots of amazing adventures that hopefully don't involve castrating goats or thatching roofs.

| /O\ | /O\ |

The trouble is, by the time Merlin's of age he's met no less than _eight_ Arthurs, one of whom even has all his teeth and is neither a three-year-old girl nor a bloodthirsty brigand, and exactly none of whom are Merlin's soulmate.

It is, as he learns to his dismay, a popular name these days, thanks to some stupid prince in the neighbouring kingdom of Camelot.

"I heard that his mother, the fair Queen Ygraine, dreamed the name up, that it came to her from the stars," Arthur-the-wheelwright confides over a tankard of Hunith's home brew. "The king meant to name him Mortimer or Albucalis, but when she died giving him life, he couldn't bear to go against her wishes. My mum thought it was all terribly romantic."

"Don't fret, darling," Hunith says as Arthur-the-wheelwright leaves after Ealdor's Beltane celebrations with his soulmate – Meira from three cottages down – in tow. "Your Arthur's bound to turn up sooner or later."

But he or she _doesn't_ , and Merlin grows despondent, then tetchy. His magic starts to flare up in ways that make people nervous – fires smoking, ale spilling, the village well plagued by amorous toads. After several run-ins with the headman and a near-disastrous wood-cutting incident, Hunith informs Merlin that perhaps it would be best if he went looking for his soulmate.

"Think of it like a quest," she says, handing him a wrapped lump of cheese and several apples for the road. She hands him a letter, too, explaining that she has an old friend in Camelot who might help him. 

"Gaius works for King Uther, and seeing as it's he who seems to be responsible for this unfortunate naming trend, what better place to start? There's bound to be records of all the noble sons named after the prince, plus Gaius knows all the midwives for miles around. If any Arthurs have been born in the lower town or within two days' ride, he'll have heard of them."

"What about the prince himself?" Merlin says, and gets his ear pinched for his trouble.

"Don't be daft, Merlin. Magic's been outlawed in Camelot ever since the queen died; either he has no soulmate or, if it's true that his mother had magic, the king probably had the name purged from him at birth."

Merlin pauses in his rucksack-stuffing, wincing at the thought. "That's possible?"

His mum looks at him sadly. "Yes, darling. Though it's so costly and horrible royals are the only ones who make a habit of it. They often insist on their children marrying for politics, you see, rather than love or destiny."

Merlin's expression must make his feelings plain, as his mother shakes her head and pulls him into an embrace, rucksack and all. "Barbaric, I know. Just be careful with your magic, dear. Listen to Gaius, keep away from the taverns and the court and you'll be fine."

| /O\ | /O\ |

To be fair, Merlin _does_ listen to Gaius, but he pretty much bollixes up everything else his first week in Camelot. By the end of it, he's been banned from the Crow and Sickle, used enough magic to have his head chopped off a dozen times over, and managed to get himself appointed manservant to none other than Prince Arthur himself – or Arthur-the-Original-Prat, as Merlin likes to think of him.

He also discovers a whopping great dragon beneath the castle who calls him "Emrys" and, when Merlin announces that, no, his name is "Merlin," laughs so hard he singes Merlin's eyebrows and stumbles backwards off his perch. 

Once he's airborne he gives a rambling monologue about destiny, irksome details and two roads diverging in the Darkling Woods. He also mentions an "Arthur" several times, but as it's clear he's talking about the prince and not an actual Arthur-of-interest, Merlin focuses on escaping back to the relative safety of the castle's dungeon level.

For a time he has his hands full learning the mysterious art of being a royal manservant, which seems to consist of daily drudgery and insults punctuated by all-too-frequent attempts on the prince's life. Merlin does his best to secretly thwart the latter, as he's fairly certain the punishment for not living up to the king's expectations vis-à-vis protecting his son is comparable to that for sorcery – namely, death. 

Also, as Merlin comes to realise, the prince isn't entirely a prat. His men seem to love him, as do the townspeople, and – whether fresh from the bath or in full armour – he's quite easy on the eyes.

In fact, between not having any spare time to go looking for other Arthurs and having his own life saved – quite romantically, he's told – by the prince, Merlin starts to entertain the merest wisp of a fantasy that he might, in fact, be the _one_. 

However, when several rounds of furtive searching at bed and bath times turn up no trace of a soulmark on Arthur's skin, Merlin sinks once more into despondency. He takes to spending his evenings in the Rising Sun, the one tavern left in the city that still welcomes him – largely, Merlin suspects, due to his position at court. 

Mostly he gets mildly drunk, cheats small sums at dice, and gets his cheeks pinched by the whores when he tries telling them of his romantic woes. 

Then, one evening, he's approached by a handsome stranger who buys him tankard after tankard of mead, sports tight-fitting leather trousers and a variety of interesting scars, and invites Merlin up to his room to get better acquainted.

"I'm Arthur, by the way," the handsome stranger says, grinning with all-but-one of his very shiny teeth. "Trapper by day and poet by night."

Merlin grins back, thinking that this is it, that against all odds he's actually found him. He's all set to follow his leather-clad destiny upstairs and finally _finally_ see what all the fuss is about when a hand falls heavily on his shoulder, yanking him back and spinning him around to face none other than Prince Arthur.

" _Merlin!_ What are you doing consorting with the enemy? You could be executed for this!" 

" 'S not nemeny," Merlin protests, trying to push the prince away. Somehow he ends up face-planted on his hauberk instead. " 'S Arthu-er. _My_ Arthu-er. My shoulmate, my density…"

"Good god what's he done to you? You're completely – Guards! After him!"

Merlin flops his head to the side, taking in the sight of his poor soulmate diving over the bar and attempting to fight his way past the strapping innkeeper. He tries pushing away again, trying to explain how long he's waited, how many times he's been disappointed and now please won't his high-and-mightiness allow Merlin one night – one _kiss_ , even – with his intended before anyone's executed. 

But Arthur's got him firmly by the neckerchief now, along with bits of his tunic and jacket and actual _neck_ , and next thing Merlin knows he's being slung over the prince's shoulder like a sack of grain amidst a great deal of shouting and commotion and paraded unceremoniously out the door.

Just before he blacks out, Merlin sicks up what feels like a yard of mead down the prince's back and sends a silent apology to his mum for being such a failure.

| /O\ | /O\ |

Merlin wakes to the sensation of drowning. The water hitting his face is so cold it hurts his skin, burns when he accidentally inhales some up his nose. He coughs, limbs flailing. His elbow smacks painfully into something solid; he realises he cannot straighten his legs all the way. He's just starting to panic when the icy torrent suddenly stops.

When he opens his eyes, he discovers that he's _not_ trapped in a barrel headed downriver, but in a large wooden tub. In fact, he's in the prince's tub, in the prince's chambers. The prince himself is standing over him with a bucket and a face like thunder.

"Explain," he says, looking pointedly towards Merlin's lap.

Merlin realises, to his horror, that he is _naked._ That with the way he's sprawled, everything from his prick to his soulmark – or most of it, at any rate – is plainly visible.

"I was b-born with it," he stutters, scrambling to sit up. He draws his knees up to his chest, hugs them close. "It's a soul– "

"Oh I know what it is," Arthur cuts in, eyes narrowing. Merlin hasn’t seen him this angry since the incident with Valiant. "What I don't know is why my manservant appears to have a soulmark of _my name_ on his thigh, nor why someone with such _clear_ ties to the old ways would ever come near Camelot unless it was part of some vile plot!"

"But I'm not plotting anything," Merlin protests. "I swear. I only came here because I wanted to find my soulmate, _my_ Arthur – who's certainly _not_ you and is probably that man from the tavern, and as he's my only shot at mortal happiness please _please_ say you haven’t chopped off his head?"

"That man," Arthur says coldly, dashing the empty bucket to the floor and curling his hands into fists, "is called Harold Rotfinger. He's one of Cenred's spies, and in his spare time he likes to swindle whores and hire himself out as an assassin." 

"What? No, he said he was a bard or… " Merlin scrubs hard at his face, but all he can remember is shiny teeth and warm brown eyes, being looked at like something worth having. "Er, something," he finishes lamely. "But not that. I would _never_ – "

Arthur cuts him off with a loud snort. He's still glaring, but his expression's edging away from sack-you-then-chop-off-your-head levels of anger to the look he gets when Merlin's forgot some vital component of breakfast or his armour, or frightened away the game, or nearly got himself killed drinking poison.

"You were astoundingly drunk, that I'll grant you. And the innkeeper confirmed that it was Harold who approached you, his coin that funded your sprint to the bottom of the mead barrel. However, in light of your… _that_ mark, you must agree the encounter looks suspicious."

Arthur pauses, crossing his arms over his chest and drawing his brows into a stern huddle. "So I'll ask you again, Merlin. _Explain_. Give me one good reason why I shouldn't tell my father about this." 

Merlin, cold and miserable, looks up at Arthur and knows that this is it. He's going to die a virgin, unloved, unbonded, and branded a traitor. A disappointment to Gaius and his mum and Arthur, too, and oddly enough in the moment it's the latter that upsets him the most.

If nothing else, he wants Arthur to understand what it feels like, having a mark like his, knowing since he could walk that there's another person on the earth who carries _his_ name, and that when they find one another it will be as two halves re-joining. No more loneliness. No more fear. 

He wants Arthur to understand what it feels like growing up on such a rich diet of expectation then, year after year, seeing it thinned out, until it's nothing but a watery gruel of wishes and regrets – until the first man at the Rising Sun who shows a proper interest and says his name is Arthur seems like a good bet.

So Merlin uncurls himself and, using the rim of the bath as a support, gets to his feet. He keeps his hands loosely at his sides, doesn't make any sudden moves or try to cover up.

"Because this," Merlin says, glancing down at his right thigh, "was the first word I ever learned." He turns a bit to the left and lifts his leg until his foot's resting on the edge of the bath, exposing the "U" and the final "R" wrapping around the back of his thigh, hanging – as Will used to tease him for – under his right arsecheek like a glossy brown bat.

"Not 'mum' or 'goat' or 'up,' but _this,_ because this is who I was made for."

Merlin sees the slight widening of Arthur's eyes as he tears his gaze from Merlin's mark, the way he blanches beneath the hot flush staining his cheeks. But he says nothing, makes no move to interrupt, so Merlin continues. He tells Arthur everything. Everything he was brought up to believe, everything he's used his magic for since coming to Camelot just to try and keep himself and his new friends – and yes, Arthur, too, once he stumbled into his service – alive whilst seeking his soulmate. 

"Please, sire," he says when he's told his tale, "you must believe that I mean you and Camelot no harm. That man in the tavern, the way he looked at me…" Merlin glances down, then away, sighing. All beams and no mortar, as they'd said in Ealdor. Blow away in a gale, be scant use warming a bed. But it had never stung, because _Arthur_ was waiting.

"He said his name was Arthur, and I… Well, I suppose I was desperate to believe him." Merlin frowns at his mark, scuffing a thumb over the "T." 

"You'll laugh, but it actually _hurts_ in a way, not knowing. Being apart."

When Merlin looks up again he is shocked at what he finds. Arthur's stood staring at him like he's sprouted a second head _and_ another set of arms which have then proceeded to pelt him with rotten fish.

He stares and _stares,_ then stalks over to his wardrobe. He grabs up a cloak, returns, and practically flings the thing in Merlin's face.

"Get out," he says, jaw tight. "And not a word of this to anyone else. Ever."

Merlin nods frantically as he fumbles with the cloak's ties, then swears as he realises he's trailing the hem in the water. He yanks the fabric up and clambers over the side of the bath, winds up clutching at Arthur for support.

He reacts viscerally, gripping Merlin's upper arm and looming into his face for a moment, eyes flashing, before pushing him bodily away and stalking towards the table.

"Sorry," Merlin mumbles. He gathers the folds of the cloak around him, looking about for his own clothes. "I'm… Thank you, sire. And good luck. I know we haven't always seen eye to eye, but I think it's rotten that people are always trying to kill you. And I know you'll be a good king one day, perhaps a very great one, so you mustn't let them."

Arthur stops, looking back over his shoulder. "What the hell are you on about?"

"I'm… " Merlin edges towards the door. There's a basket on the floor nearby with a likely-looking bundle in it – and a healthy reek as well. Merlin wrinkles his nose, thinks perhaps some things are better left behind. "Um, thanking you for sparing my life. Saying goodbye, good luck, that sort of thing?"

"Why?"

He looks genuinely puzzled, which completely throws Merlin, freezes him in his tracks and robs his next words of any sarcasm.

"Because you just told me to get out?"

Arthur scowls. "Of my _chambers_ , Merlin. For tonight. I expect you back here in the morning fresh as a daisy with my breakfast – hot; my armour – spotless; and the recent contents of your stomach removed from our clothing." 

"You're not sacking me?"

Arthur continues on to the table, pours himself a generous cup of wine. "And turn you loose to menace my poor subjects? I think not. No, you're staying right here where I can keep an eye on you."

"But what about my soulm– "

" _No._ "

Merlin starts as Arthur's fist crashes down on the table, wine slopping over the rim of the cup. He doesn’t turn around, but his head comes up, whips to the left. Merlin can just about see the dangerous glint in his eye.

"I will keep your secrets, Merlin, and see that no harm comes to you, but my price is that you will remain in my service, by my side, until I release you. No more nights in the tavern, no more chasing after... this ridiculous _destiny_ of yours. Is that understood?" 

Merlin hears himself gasp. He's not sure if what he's feeling is relief or anger, because what Arthur is offering is generous, surely more than Merlin deserves, and yet…

Merlin forces himself to stoop, to lift the basket of stinking laundry. He sees that, yes, his clothes are there, along with Arthur's tunic, trousers, and leather jerkin, the latter horribly stained. He blinks and finds that his eyes are wet; he could blame it on the acrid smell, but he knows, in his heart, that it would be a lie.

"And if my destiny finds me?" he says, eyes fixed on Arthur's profile. "If _my_ Arthur shows up in Camelot one day?" 

He sees Arthur's slow blink, more of a wince, really, and the twitch of his jaw.

"Then you are welcome to him," he says roughly, snatching up the overfull cup. "Now _go._ "

The last thing Merlin sees as he closes the door is Arthur draining the cup as if he's been dying of thirst, his head tipped back, hair and wrist and exposed throat painted golden by the firelight.

* * *

**Two**

When Merlin is gone, Arthur flings the empty cup away as hard as he can and feels a vicious sense of satisfaction as it clangs off some Pendragon ancestor's shield, knocking it askew. He draws his dagger and stabs it into the table, rakes his fingers roughly through his hair until his scalp's smarting and his nails come away clogged with dead, waxy skin.

Then he sits, slumping forward with his head in his hands, cursing fate and destiny and bloody _magic_ with every fibre of his being. He curses his father, too, but knows that he was out of his mind with grief at the time, and was only doing what he thought right.

He remembers when he first saw what was left of his own soulmark. Five or six, screaming tears over seeing his nurse dragged away by the guards, attacking anyone who tried to soothe him with his teeth and a wooden sword. 

She'd only been doing little, innocent things: making animal shapes appear in the fire; coaxing his boots to dance about when he didn't want to put them on; keeping his porridge warm. 

In the end they'd had to summon his father from a council meeting. Uther had disarmed him with one booted foot, marched him personally to Gaius' quarters and, after locking the door, forced him onto a stool.

"Show him," he'd commanded. "If the death of his mother isn't enough, show him how magic would've made a slave of him."

It'd taken a sharp knife and razor; scalding water and the sting of something from one of Gaius' bottles; a hand mirror and a larger glass, dragged from a dusty corner. Gaius with his brows arched in disapproval but saying nothing, trying his best to be gentle. Uther holding Arthur by the scruff of his neck, twisting his head and ordering him to, " _Look,_ son. That would have bound you to one of them, body and soul."

Pale white letters – five of them – shiny like scar tissue yet crisp around the edges, evenly spaced save where the "E" listed towards the "M". Unlike all of his lessons ever, no one had bothered asking him if he could pronounce the word, nor told him what it meant. 

After, he'd been made to wear a bandage until the ghost letters were hidden again. His father had never spoken of them since.

It was Gaius who'd later told Arthur how his father had nearly emptied the coffers searching for a way to safely remove a soulmark from a newborn infant. How some wouldn't even attempt it, and none would promise to do so completely, as it was too clear, too strong. 

Reading between Gaius' silences and pointed innuendo, Arthur gathered that magic had been involved, that the sorcerer who'd finally bled the colour from the mark and declared it impotent had been repaid, in a stark display of the new regime, with a family trip to the pyre.

| /O\ | /O\ |

Arthur sits up half the night, staring into the dying fire, thinking on Merlin's words and wrestling with the knowledge that that man and his family had likely died for nothing.

The last time he'd tried parting his hair and twisting to peer at the ghost letters up close, he could have sworn they had darkened, that the "M" was definitely more pink than white. And the hurt Merlin described, that _yearning_? Arthur feels it too – always has, but lately it's been getting stronger. 

He's plagued by dreams of being caught and held, met with a fierce passion and cradled in a glowing warmth, the likes of which he's never known. Sometimes he wakes missing a hand on his shoulder, an arm slung round his waist, a voice in his ear.

The worst of it is that lately that voice sounds an awful lot like Merlin's. Lately the left side of Arthur's scalp will itch when Merlin's in danger – like earlier tonight, when he'd seen Merlin about to go upstairs with that piece of filth – or tingle when Merlin's touching his bare skin. 

So when Arthur had seen Merlin's mark, then heard him talking about being desperate to believe? He knows that some part of him had been desperate to believe as well – that _he's_ the one whose name is wrapped snugly round Merlin's pale, corded thigh, tucked up against his most intimate places. That Merlin risked coming to Camelot to find _him,_ that that spark he'd felt the first time they'd met – that keeps on happening despite Arthur's attempts to guard against it – _means_ something other than Arthur having an apparent weakness for a gangling peasant with a bold mouth and a bright pair of eyes.

But no matter how he wishes it, Arthur can't change the fact that it's not Merlin's name hidden under his hair. It's nothing even remotely close, and even if it were, Camelot still needs an heir and strong allies, which means he must marry some princess of his father's choosing. 

Which means Arthur really should have let Merlin go, but the idea of not seeing his face each day – of, perhaps, never seeing him again – is simply unthinkable.

| /O\ | /O\ |

They get by.

At first Arthur is strict, keeping Merlin close, cautioning him against reckless use of his magic and watching him for signs that he might flee. His ears in the taverns and at the gates inform him of any new Arthurs in the city and, because he is not a monster, he arranges for each one to be brought in secret to the castle so that Merlin might meet them.

If he gets blind drunk on those nights, that is his own business. So, too, is the twisted relief he feels when Merlin turns up next day with his breakfast, a vial of Gaius' special potion and a small, grim shake of the head. 

He doesn't like the accompanying slumped shoulders or cross, weary lines on Merlin's face, but he does enjoy trying to erase them. Creative insults usually do the trick, sometimes paired with thrown objects, forceful hair-ruffling, or part of Arthur's breakfast. When all else fails, there is the gentle word, the quiet vacating of his own chambers so Merlin can weep in private.

Then, after an ill-fated tangle with the Questing Beast and being brought back from the brink of certain death – thanks to Merlin, Gaius tells him, and quite heroically, too – there comes a night when Arthur's not handed the cup of wine he's requested to dull his headache. 

Rather, Merlin downs it himself, then marches over to where Arthur's seated before the fire. The look on his face is defiant, desperate, _fierce._

Arthur's breath catches in his throat. He stiffens his spine, resisting the urge to stand just so Merlin won't have the height advantage. He's so distracted he doesn't notice Merlin reaching down until he's caught hold of Arthur's left hand and is pulling it towards his right thigh. Pulling it higher, placing it just _there,_ where his leg meets his body.

"You're _an_ Arthur," he says, searching Arthur's face for understanding. "The best one I know, and I trust you more than anyone. I couldn't bear it if something happened to you and I never – "

"Shut up," Arthur says thickly, squeezing Merlin's thigh. These aren't the words he wants to hear, but by the gods he'll bloody take them.

He stands, allowing Merlin to pull him into a tight embrace for a moment before wresting control, manhandling Merlin around the chair and towards the bed.

"Are you certain?" he murmurs against the shell of Merlin's ear. He gets a nod, a fervent, "Yes," in reply, and he lets that silence any lingering doubts. 

He throws Merlin onto the bed and strips him as he had on that night, silently, ruthlessly, not daring to really look until he's completely bare. 

He doesn’t mean for it to be rough, means to kiss Merlin as he would a woman, soothe him with his hands and his mouth, wordlessly claiming each and every letter of that wretched soulmark for his own. 

But Merlin won’t keep still, won't let him be tender. He kisses like a starving man, clutching at Arthur's clothes and hair; he pulls him close and grinds against him, parting his legs in invitation. And whenever Arthur pulls back a little, trying to wrap his head around what he is doing and why, Merlin just looks at him with a panting red mouth and hot, devastating eyes.

Arthur _knows_ these eyes, and his blood boils thinking of all the times Merlin's looked at him like this but ultimately turned away, leaving the room without another word or turning his back and settling into his bedroll – thinking of all the Arthurs he's left Merlin with, never once asking what's occurred between them, if Merlin's ever looked at them as he's looking at Arthur now, if he's ever…

"Please," Merlin says, squeezing Arthur's flanks between his thighs, bucking his hips up in a desperate attempt at friction and wincing as he gets it dry and rough against Arthur's tunic. "Do it. Want to… I need to feel… Arthur, please, it _aches._ "

Arthur shifts back. He gets on his knees between Merlin's legs and splays them wider, pushing them up towards his chest, fully exposing that final upside-down "R" and the brownish-pink pucker that serves, from this angle, as a full stop. He leans in and spits on it, a rude gesture for a rude place. 

"Is this… Have you ever…?" He's already probing it with a fingertip before he gets the words out. It's clenched tight, stubborn as its owner.

Merlin shakes his head, pulls a face as he tries to bear down. "Only my own – _ah_ finger."

And this should gentle Arthur as well, but Merlin suddenly grips the backs of his own thighs and whispers something, eyes glowing amber. Suddenly the tip of Arthur's finger, gripped sticky-tight and going nowhere, is sliding into slick velvet heat. Suddenly his heart's racing, his scalp's on fire, and his limbs are _shaking_ with how much he can't stand being apart from Merlin for a moment longer. 

He tears at his laces one-handed, starts trying to stuff his cock in even as he's pulling his finger out. All he wants to do is get _in,_ to rut like a beast until he spends inside that perfect heat.

"Merlin, come _on,_ let me…"

It looks as if it's never going to work until it _does_. Arthur's not sure who gets the them the last of the way there, but between all the squirming and straining and panted breaths he's _finally_ sheathed to the hilt inside Merlin, braced over him with his balls mashed up against the tail of his soulmark, and the itching, the ache is gone and _oh_ once he's come Arthur's not going to pull out. He's going to pin Merlin in place until he's ready to take him again, is going to fuck him until he's leaking Arthur's seed as punishment for not asking for this sooner, because while they may not be soulmates, they _fit._

It's the best sex Arthur's had. It's also the least lonely he's felt in all his life. 

When they are through and Merlin's breathing has calmed, he kisses Arthur one last time, presses a hand over his heart and his latest set of scars. Then, without a word, he gathers his clothing on unsteady legs, dresses himself, and slips out the door. Arthur tells himself that the wet shine in Merlin's eyes is to do with his magic, not evidence of unshed tears. 

He's less sure how to explain his own.

| /O\ | /O\ |

They get by like this – for a few years.

There are long stretches where they act as master and servant or, in a crisis, behave more as old friends or comrades-in-arms. Outsiders see scathing banter and boundless devotion, but never the passion that flares up periodically behind locked doors or dark, deserted corners of the kingdom. 

Sometimes Merlin asks, and sometimes Arthur takes. They never share a bed after, never trade soft words or kisses that don't come in the throes of sex, but there comes a day when Merlin refuses to meet with any more strange Arthurs. He tells Arthur with averted eyes that he's done looking, that it's too late. 

Arthur resists the urge to take his hand. Instead he tosses Merlin the map of Gawant he's been studying. 

"Lord Godwyn and his daughter are due for a visit next month. He's an old friend and an important ally, and I fear my father's keen on keeping it that way. We need to find out everything we can about this Princess Elena."

They've averted more than one royal wedding like this. Sophia, Rowena, Vivian, Ragnelle. It helps, of course, that all the women who've been set on marrying him have had ulterior motives, usually involving magic, or been themselves enchanted. In a pinch he cites his love for Gwen, as he is very fond of her and she of him, and she did choose him and Camelot over fleeing with Morgana.

However, there comes a day when neither he nor Merlin can find anything wrong with the bride his father's picked out for him, when even his fondness for Gwen can no longer be used as an excuse, as she's gone and married Lancelot.

Mithian is whip-smart, kind, and more understanding than Arthur could have hoped for. On their wedding night, after they have performed their duties, she shows Arthur her own ravaged soulmark, nothing but pink scar tissue where once a woman's name had soared over one shoulder blade. He ducks his head and parts his hair for her, lets her comb through it closely with her fingers and hears her soft gasp when she sees.

"But yours looks intact, strong. It's – "

"It was bled of life. Neutralised." He hasn't looked in years. Won't. Can't bear what he might see.

"It looks lively enough to me. Though your hair's so thick I can't read it properly." She musses his head and pulls his chin back up, looking him in the eyes. "I… Well, you don't have to say, of course, but I'd understand if – " She breaks off, sighing, and slides her hand up to cup Arthur's cheek. "I assume it's Merlin, yes?"

Arthur tenses. "No," he says, removing her hand – gently, but firmly – and rolling onto his back. "No, it's not. Merlin isn't… He is many things to me, but not that. Never that." He can't quite keep the bitterness out of his voice.

She remains as she is for some time, watching him, her rejected hand curled under her chin. "I see," she says softly, but her gaze remains sharp, her brow furrowed, and he fears she might see all too much.

| /O\ | /O\ |

During the first few months of their marriage they work hard at getting an heir. Uther is ailing, and Arthur knows it's only a matter of time. He is king in all but title now, forced to give up hunting and leading the patrol in favour of warming his wife's bed as well as a variety of elaborate chairs throughout the castle – flexing his mind rather than his sword arm, testing his patience rather than his aim.

It's a painful, awkward time. Neither he nor Merlin are at their best, and Mithian, understandably, feels caught in the middle. At last Arthur takes pity on them all, sending Merlin off on a secret diplomatic mission to the Druids under the guise of an extended visit with his mother. 

Then, when it appears that the thing is done, he and Mithian come to an arrangement that better suits them both. She moves to a larger set of rooms and sends for her childhood playmate, the daughter of an old nurse. Arthur sends word to Hunith that Merlin is urgently needed back at court. 

When he arrives he comes directly to Arthur's chambers, as requested. He seems taller, well-fed and well-rested, clad in a new cloak of russet and forest green homespun. Arthur cannot help the surge of mingled anger and desire at the sight. 

At his side, Mithian presses his hand, smile never wavering. _It should have been you_ , he thinks at Merlin as he tries to match Mithian's smile – warm, welcoming, certainly not desperate. He squeezes her hand in return, if only to quell the urge to leap up and tear the foreign colours from Merlin's back.

Merlin notices the gesture, and his smile falters for a moment.

"I have good news, sire. The…er, our mutual friends are just that. They are more than eager to work with you on those matters we've discussed, and with regards to Morgana…" Merlin breaks off, glancing at Mithian.

"You may speak plainly, Merlin. I've not kept any secrets from her."

He sees that flash of unease again, and is only too grateful when Mithian interrupts, rising from the table.

"Nevertheless," she says, "I've still much to do to prepare for Agnes' arrival. Merlin, would you see to it he keeps out of my way for the rest of the afternoon? I'd be ever so grateful."

When she is gone, Merlin makes as if to join him at the table, unclasping his cloak and draping it over the back of a chair.

"She's allied herself with Helios and his Southrons, or is using them, at any rate," he says, and it takes Arthur a moment to process that he's still talking about Morgana. "They spent the winter in the caves south of Engerd, and – "

Arthur's up and around the other side of the table before Merlin can sit down, gripping him by his shoulders. "Are they marching on Camelot this instant?"

"What? _No._ I was just about to tell you. They're – "

"Then for the next hour, I don't bloody well care!" Arthur marches Merlin back towards the bed, reclaiming his mouth, his neck. He tastes different, _smells_ different and Arthur hates it, wants to wear it away and erase every second of the time they've spent apart.

Merlin, of course, has to be contrary about it, pushing back just as hard, twisting in his grasp, ending kisses before Arthur's satisfied.

"Arthur, wait. What about – "

"She _knows,_ Merlin." Arthur gives up on the kissing and reaches for Merlin's belt. It's new as well, some horrid plaited thing of stiff plant fibres.

"But – "

"She's as much a pawn in this as I am – more so, even, as she never wanted any man in her bed, unless it was for the sake of children. We're… Well, we've agreed to terms, of a sort. We're going to make the best of it."

"Oh." Merlin stares at him with troubled eyes.

Arthur finishes unpicking the knot. He lets the belt drop to the floor, grips the hem of Merlin's tunic then, on second thought, reaches for his face. Forehead to forehead, the reassurance of feeling the bones under Merlin's skin, for those haven't changed.

"Just so we're clear, _this_ is me making the best of it."

"Oh," Merlin repeats, except this time there's no strain in it. He nudges his nose against Arthur's, presses a kiss onto his cheek. 

Arthur's had his fill of chaste kisses though and, for the moment, his fill of words. He lets the wild _need_ take over, the man – the beast – he only ever is with Merlin. And Merlin may have filled out a bit, may have put on some lean muscle and a few new chest hairs, but he's still just as wanton when Arthur's got him on his belly with his bottom in the air, still begs earnestly for Arthur's cock as if he might actually be denied.

This time, however, Merlin does not rise as soon as he's got his breath back. He remains sprawled facedown on the bed, legs spread and one hand curled round his spent cock. A long moment passes, then another. His face is angled away from Arthur, so he can't be sure, but he assumes Merlin's fallen asleep. However, when Arthur shifts to draw the covers up over him, Merlin gives a quiet groan. He stretches, then flips over, rolling until he's facing Arthur.

This is when Arthur first notices the tattoo.

"Merlin, what…?"

He smiles hesitantly, shifting his right thigh forward for Arthur's inspection. "See for yourself." 

The lines are dark blue, shading to black where they cross Merlin's soulmark, but it's only an outline, and upside-down to Arthur's eyes, so it takes him a moment to recognise it. When he does, he's glad he's lying down; he feels as if all his organs have seized, then shifted about violently.

"Among the Druid elders I met there was a man called Aglain, who is learned in bond marks. He helped me with this."

Arthur reaches out, brushing his fingertips over the crest of the dragon's wings. He doesn’t want to ask. _Has_ to, because the answer's too important. "Is it… Does it actually _change_ anything about your soulmark?"

Merlin gives a quick shake of his head, covering Arthur's hand with his own. "No, apparently they can be purged, but never altered. This is more symbolic. But it has its own magic, and it does help."

Arthur jerks his hand away, swallowing. "How?"

Merlin studies him curiously. "You really wish to know?"

"No, Merlin, I only asked to hear myself speak."

Merlin gives a soft chuckle then, seeing Arthur's expression, quickly sobers. He sits up, crossing his legs tailor-style and shifting to face Arthur. He lowers his gaze to his lap. "It lessens the…the emptiness, I guess you'd call it. The anger, the longing for something that isn’t there. Helps me focus on the path I've chosen."

Arthur should be overjoyed at the words, and at the implication behind them, and yet… It is the Pendragon crest Merlin's had tattooed on his thigh, nothing unique to Arthur himself.

"And what of this?" he says, reaching between Merlin's legs and nudging at his spent cock. It's tacky with drying seed. "Is this mine, too?"

Merlin hisses, batting his hand away, but Arthur sees his balls contract and his belly tighten. When he looks up there's a renewed flush on his cheeks.

"You can certainly use it whenever you like," he mumbles. "But I didn't expect… With Mithian, I mean. I thought it might be easier if we stopped."

"Oh I'll show you _easy_ ," Arthur says, and pounces, dragging Merlin back down. 

By the time he's got Merlin where he wants him – on top, straddling his hips – Arthur's cock has roused. Merlin's still loose and slick; all it takes is a guiding hand and a firm push and he's back inside that clenching heat. 

It's not until he's spent himself a second time, pulling out at the last and squeezing the final pulses of seed onto Merlin's marks, that he remembers the second part of his earlier question. As they catch their breath, he rubs his spend into Merlin's skin, idly thumbing the lines of the tattoo. 

"Is this a sorcerer thing, or would it work for anyone with a soulmark?"

Merlin blinks down at him, mouth hanging open. "Um…what?"

Arthur repeats the question more slowly, giving Merlin's thigh a sharp squeeze. It's clearly not the best time for complex conversation, but it's the middle of the afternoon and they can't lie around in bed all day. Besides, if he doesn't ask now, he's in danger of getting his hopes up again.

Merlin pulls a variety of faces, squirming in their combined mess until Arthur takes pity on him and allows him to clamber off. 

"I don't know," he says at last. "To the Druids, soulmarks are sacred and very private. Even if they are seen, they are rarely spoken of outside the immediate family, and what I was asking… Well, I'm sure Aglain thought me very ill-manned at first."

"Sharp man," Arthur comments, not quite dodging the incoming smack. It glances off his thigh.

"But he eventually agreed to help me because some of the other elders convinced him that it wouldn't be sacrilege."

"Because you're not a Druid?"

"No, because I'm – " Merlin breaks off, blushing furiously. 

"What?" Arthur says, intrigued.

Merlin shrugs. "Me, I guess." He scoots gingerly off the bed and starts hunting for his trousers on the floor.

"And what makes you so special?"

"Wouldn't you like to know." 

" _Merlin._ "

His head pops up at the foot of the bed. He's still red as a tomato. "It's nothing, really. Just that my magic is a bit…unique, apparently. The Druids have this prophecy about someone with my abilities, and he's… " Merlin rushes through the rest as he struggles into his clothes. 

"Well, apparently it's possible my mark isn't a true soulmark, but more like… a brand or something, a magical tether. That there _isn't_ anyone out there marked for me, never was, because I was born to serve Albion – and you, as you'll be her king. Once and forever, or something like that, so maybe the tattoo is just me accepting that."

"But that's…" Agitated, Arthur runs a hand through his hair, then swiftly pulls it away when he realises that he's begun to scratch. As satisfying as the idea is that he is _the_ Arthur after all, it seems an awfully cruel trick of fate. "That's not possible, surely? I thought they had to come in pairs, else it'd be… unequal." 

It'd be no better than slavery, is what he's thinking. Bound to someone who would never want you in the exact same way, who could use your devotion against you. It sends a shiver down his spine.

Merlin shrugs again. "Gaius says that where I'm concerned, no one's found the limits of what's possible." Then, as if he's merely announced that it's a fine day, he crosses to the table and retrieves his cloak.

When he turns back around he's Merlin the cheeky manservant once more, eyeing Arthur from head to toe, saying, "I'd offer to help you dress, sire, but I fear it would only make you late for council."

Arthur makes a show of rolling his eyes and waving him off, but his smile fades as soon as Merlin's out the door, and he's still staring at the back of it when George knocks to announce that he's due in the council chamber.

| /O\ | /O\ |

Despite what Merlin and any blasted Druids say, Arthur sees no evidence that things are any different, any easier for him. He just hides it better, perfecting the placid smile and keeping busy, obsessing over how his magic might aid Arthur and Camelot once he no longer has to hide. He spends more and more time sneaking off to meet with the Druids or holed up in some cave or tower. When they are alone, he speaks of enchanted swords and warded cloaks, of commanding dragons and the elements, even time itself.

It never gets any easier for Arthur either. No matter how urgent their couplings or heated their debates – no matter how guilty Arthur feels over Merlin's marks – there is no slaking his desire, no lessening his frustration at the constant pretence, his anger at not _quite_ having. 

Mithian, thankfully, fares better. Glowing with the new life inside her and flourishing under Agnes' attentions, she slips easily into Camelot's embrace. She becomes a great favourite at court, the warm, witty counterpart to her taciturn husband, the devoted daughter-in-law to the ailing king. 

In autumn she gives birth to twins, a girl and a boy, neither of whom bear the slightest trace of a soulmark. Mithian weeps bitterly, wanting them to have what was stolen from her and Arthur, but he is privately relieved. Whatever power is responsible for meting the things out, he's seen first-hand – sees every day – the damage it can do, and wants it nowhere near anyone else he loves.

The children adore Merlin and he them, though he puts on a show of merely tolerating their presence. Their arrival, however, seems to strengthen his belief that he and Arthur's bond was only ever meant to be platonic. He still willingly submits to Arthur's advances, holds back nothing when he's impaled on Arthur's tongue or his cock, but he never asks anymore, and he always slinks away after looking bone-weary and slightly ashamed of himself.

Arthur, Prince Regent of Camelot, possessed of both a wife and a lover, sleeps alone and – increasingly – poorly.

Then, one fine spring day, Uther dies. There is an appropriate period of mourning, followed by a great feast to officially celebrate the new king and queen and to welcome, for the first time in a quarter century, a delegation of Druids within the city walls.

| /O\ | /O\ |

Arthur's approaching numb by this point. Between grief, guilt, sleeplessness, heartache, and a whole host of worries – implementing Merlin's reforms, the recent floods, little Ygerna's cough, Morgana's current whereabouts, all those who might perceive Camelot as weak during its transition – the absolute last thing he desires is to don ceremonial robes and play the gracious host.

Yet it can't be avoided, so he grits his teeth and holds his tongue while George fusses over him – Merlin having been excused to see to his own preparations – and takes his place beside Mithian with a well-practised and thoroughly insincere smile.

He feels a flicker of the real thing when Merlin hurries in through a side door, nearly tripping over his new ceremonial robes – purple, because Gwen's right, the colour does suit him – but then the main doors are flung open and there is an unceasing tide of guests to greet and speeches to give ear to, and Arthur knows there's not enough wine in the world to make this bearable.

"Chin up, husband," Mithian whispers, "A little bird told me that if we behave, we're to be kidnapped by the children tomorrow for a family picnic with Agnes and Merlin. Absolutely no crowns allowed."

It's with this pleasant vision in his mind that Arthur greets the delegation of Druids, who are the last to arrive. 

They are nine in number, three women and six men, the last of whom seems not long past boyhood. He is the one who first removes his hood, revealing a cap of dark, glossy curls and piercing blue eyes. While the others remain a solemn-faced wedge, he smiles warmly, stepping forward and again bowing to Arthur and Mithian. When he spots Merlin, however, his whole face lights up, and he goes down on one knee.

There is a ripple of sound throughout the hall, laughter by those who assume it's a jest, gasps and muttering from others. 

"Please, Mordred," Merlin says, ears gone quite pink. "There's no need for that. Rise, and speak so that the king and queen might hear you." He shoots an apologetic glance over to Arthur, who arches an eyebrow in return. Merlin had explained about the Druids' telepathy, promising that during their initial visit, all discussions would be voiced as a matter of courtesy and good faith.

"My apologies, Emrys. In my joy at seeing you, I quite forgot my manners." The boy stands, turning to Arthur and Mithian. "Please forgive me, your majesties. I was only saying that…"

But Arthur doesn't hear a word more, as he's too busy wondering if he could have _possibly_ heard what he thinks he's just heard, too busy looking over Merlin's shoulder at Gaius, who's staring back at Arthur, eyes bulging and eyebrows pushed as high up as they go.

When the boy pauses – Arthur doesn't know if he's finished speaking or is merely catching his breath, and doesn’t much care – Arthur steps closer, heart in his throat, saying, "Forgive my ignorance, please, but that name just now, what you called Merlin… Emrys, was it?"

Merlin opens his mouth, but the Druid beats him to it, nodding happily. "Yes, that is how he is known amongst my people. Great Emrys, the immortal one. We have been awaiting him for many years."

"You," Arthur says, eyes locking on Merlin. His ears are buzzing, his scalp itching. He can't think, can't get enough spit into his mouth, can't bloody _breathe._ "You're – "

"It's just the name they use in the prophecy," Merlin cuts in hastily, waving a hand. "A bit like a title. It's not… Sire, what's the matter? Are you unwell?" 

Yes! Arthur wants to shout, if he could even get the word out. He is very, _very_ unwell. He wants to smash something, to weep, to crawl into a cask of ale and never come out. He wants to raise his father from the dead and plant a knife in his heart, to order the Fates burnt alive and himself flogged thrice over for every single time he's told himself that confessing to Merlin about his own soulmark would only make things worse.

"Arthur?"

"Your majesty?"

"Sire?"

" _Arthur!_ "

Arthur doesn't recognise the sound that comes from his throat, only knows that it _hurts,_ and that that's as it should be, for nothing can ever be well again.

"Merlin," he says. " _Emrys,_ I – "

He's cut off by the peal of the warning bells. A guard rushes in, announcing that the castle is under attack. "It's the Lady Morgana, sire! Through the old siege tunnels."

Merlin's eyes go wide. Then he's sprinting towards the doors, Leon's bellowing instructions to the knights, and someone's removing Arthur's ceremonial robes, thrusting a sword into his hand. He's not sure if the walls have begun to shake or if it's his own fury rising. He's going to paint them with blood.

* * *

**Three**

The exact layout of the siege tunnels, Merlin knows, is one of Camelot's most closely guarded military secrets, which means Arthur's been betrayed yet again. It is this thought that sickens him, almost more than the destruction and violence he's forced to inflict in the first wave of the Southrons' attack. Earth and stone that have stood just _so_ for centuries brought down by a flash of his eyes, scores of men crushed by a flick of his wrist, the conduits of the attack crudely severed like a diseased limb.

Heartsick and panicked, Merlin races deeper into the bowels of the castle. He can only trust that the knights and the castle guard – and of course Arthur, who fights with such beauty Merlin often forgets to hate the fact that he must fight at all – to take care of the mercenaries who've already made it inside. For while Morgana's caught them by surprise, there are things her spy could never have told her, lest it were Gaius or Arthur himself. 

Her remaining men outside the castle are no match for a newly-freed dragon, and she, in the end, is no match for the sword forged in its breath. He catches her, following one of those insights that come like a faceful of icy water, in the nursery: Ygerna struggling in the arms of her terrified nurse, Magge, and Llacheu gazing up at the aunt he's never before met – at the ball of fire sparking, swirling, forming up before her outstretched palm – with wide, startled eyes.

Llacheu and Magge close their eyes when Merlin commands it, but Ygerna watches all. She breaks free of Magge's grip as soon as Morgana's body slumps to the floor, toddles over and flings her arms around Merlin's legs.

"Fafa?" she says, round face creased with worry.

"He's _alive_ ," Merlin assures her. He knows no such thing; the conviction in his voice comes from his sheer need to believe it. "Don’t worry, Piglet. Stay here with your brother and help look after Magge, all right? I'll put a special lock on the door and send someone for you when we're sure it's safe."

| /O\ | /O\ |

Arthur is barking out the names of those knights who should stay behind in the hall to guard the guests when he feels a tug on his arm. He glances to the side. No one is touching him, but the tallest of the Druids, a regal, dark-skinned man, steps forward, eyes blazing.

"You will need all your fighting men, Arthur Pendragon. Take them. We will hold the hall."

It's madness. The alliance hasn’t even been formally proposed, let alone cemented; the reforms are yet to be enacted. Magic is still technically illegal in Camelot. But while the Arthur of five minutes ago would have demanded to know _how,_ the Arthur who's just watched his best friend in the world – his manservant, lover, warlock, and bloody _soulmate_ – go sprinting towards danger only nods once before bellowing, "Knights, all of you, with me!"

The corridor outside the hall is deserted, but the sounds from the one beyond… 

Boots on stone. Shouting. Screams.

Arthur rounds the corner in full throat himself – no discernible "For Camelot!" but he trusts his men understand the sentiment all the same – and leads the charge into the roiling mass of guardsmen and mercenaries.

He takes out three on his initial advance, one on his second. He takes a heavy blow to his ribs but moves forward still, following the rhythm of lunge and parry, slash and whirl, duck and _thrust_ that is writ on his very bones. He has his boot on one man's chest and his sword in another's gut when there is a bright spray of sparks behind his eyes, a sudden hot sting all along the left side of his head.

| /O\ | /O\ |

Merlin takes Morgana's body with him, managing to hold back his tears until he's away from the children. Then he weeps freely, remembering the only other time he'd held her weight thus. He'd betrayed her trust to save Arthur. If he'd only known then that it was no use feeling guilty, as he'd do it again and again – would risk his own mother's life, apparently, if it meant having Arthur back safe and whole.

"I am sorry, my lady," he says as he drapes her body across Kilgharrah's back. "I wish it could have been different… that you could have waited until it were so."

He commands the dragon to fly low over any remaining enemy troops and surrounding kingdoms – showing any potential sympathisers that Morgana's plot has failed, that Camelot has defences no one's dreamed of – then to take her to the lake that serves as the gateway to Avalon.

He's on his way to the hall when he encounters Mithian, gown stained with blood and a Southron sword gripped tightly in her hand.

"Merlin!" she exclaims. "My children, have you – "

"They are safe, my lady," he says. "I've warded the nursery door, but it will let you in. Have you seen – "

"He's with Gaius," she says, grasping his arm with her free hand and squeezing it. "Alive, but just. You should go to him."

| /O\ | /O\ |

EMRYS, Arthur knows, is his soulmate. The one destiny has chosen for him and, while he was growing inside his mother, knitted into his bones, branded onto his skin. The letters are stark on the patch of pale, shorn scalp – a rich and undeniable rosy-brown, criss-crossed by tidy stitches.

"You should rest now, sire," the old man says, gently retrieving the mirror from his hand. "You've lost quite a bit of blood."

"Where is he?" Arthur says, prodding the line on the side of his head where faint, sticky-skinned stubble gives way to his hair proper. "Where's Emrys?"

The old man stares at him. Arthur can't tell if it's alarm or disapproval that makes his brows leap about so, but it does nothing for his nerves.

"Sire, just who… Pardon me, but do you know my name?"

"No idea," Arthur says, smiling. "Though going by your stitching you're an experienced physician."

| /O\ | /O\ |

The first thing Merlin notices is the basins, the water in one stained red, the other overtopped with greenish-white scum and flecks of hair. There are hanks of it on the floor as well, still sun-bright but lifeless now. There's a knife on the bench beside the cot, a razor and a hand mirror, and Arthur is –

Gaius comes out of nowhere, trying to block Merlin's view of the cot, but he's already seen.

"What…?" he says, his voice soaring to a pitch he hasn’t had since he was a boy. "Gaius, that's… When did that happen? Just _who_ – "

"He was born with it," Gaius says. "Uther tried to have it purged, had succeeded, for all anyone knew, until… Well." He glances back over his shoulder, then grabs Merlin's hands.

"Please, Merlin, believe me. He didn’t know, _neither_ of us knew until – "

"Until tonight," Merlin cuts in, pushing past Gaius and sinking to his knees beside Arthur's cot. "By the gods, Gaius, what have I done? How could I have been so…? Why did he never…? What were the Fates bloody _thinking?_ "

Merlin hears his mum's voice, sees her sweet, calm face glowing in the firelight as she'd scrubbed him down after a day in the fields. _"It will be a beautiful bond,"_ she'd said. _"Very strong. You're a lucky boy, Merlin. And so is your Arthur, whoever he may be."_

He's just pressing one trembling finger to that now-jagged, but still distinct "E" when Arthur's slow breathing stops, then quickens. His eyes flutter open, a stark blue-grey as they've been on a thousand other cloudy mornings, and yet infinitely more precious.

"Merlin!" he says, grinning and lumping an arm over to paw at Merlin's shoulder. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Arthur, do you remember, that night when you found me at the tavern… "

"Which one?"

Merlin ignores Gaius' snort and wedges himself on the edge of the cot, taking Arthur's face in his hands. "The first time, with that man who turned out to be Cenred's spy, and I confessed why I'd really come to Camelot."

Arthur's grin fades. He nods under Merlin's hands, looks up at him with earnest eyes. "You wanted to find your soulmate. And I – "

"You said," Merlin cuts in, "that I was welcome to him, should he ever turn up in Camelot."

"I did?" Arthur's brow furrows. 

Merlin nods, bowing his head until their foreheads are touching. "Am I still?" he whispers.

"Of course," Arthur replies. "Although – " 

"Good," Merlin says, and kisses him like he's no one's destiny, no one's king, but simply an Arthur – _the_ Arthur – that he's desperate to know better.

* * *

**Epilogue**

When the Once and Future King passes from the mountains and plains of Albion to the shores of Avalon, his last words to the Great Emrys are ones of thanks and encouragement followed by, "Hold me… Merlin, please, just _hold_ me, and tell me the story of how we'll meet again."

The Fates, in their cavern, are almost ashamed to witness it, fearing the repercussions of their mistake. Morgana and her sisters on the Isle are bolder, for they see all exactly as it was, as it is, and as it was meant to be. 

"I was wrong about you," she says to the shade of the man who was her brother, "as you will find that you were wrong about me. And as for the Fates, well… They fucked up, and one day, when Albion's – and Merlin's – need is greatest, they're going to make it up to you."

| \O/ | \O/ | 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! If you are a _Merlin_ fan, please consider lurking, reading, writing, arting, vidding, podficcing, and/or commenting over at the comm [Tavern Tales](http://tavern-tales.livejournal.com/)! There are many amazing artists, authors and other jolly-good-persons there, and there's always room for more. There are monthly themes, which you're welcome to interpret however you like, and ALL sorts of fanworks are welcome!
> 
> ETA: And yes to anyone's who's seen it I shamelessly stole a certain concept from the film _Blow Dry_ , which I am loath to spoil for anyone who hasn't.


End file.
